


One to Grow On

by maydei



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Biting, Body Worship, Bottom Sam, Explicit Sexual Content, Fingerfucking, Lap Sex, M/M, Mild Blood, Redemption, Schmoop, Season/Series 08 Spoilers, Sick Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-03
Updated: 2013-05-03
Packaged: 2017-12-10 07:33:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/783450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maydei/pseuds/maydei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every birthday, Lucifer visits Sam in his dreams. That's about to stop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One to Grow On

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write something for Sam's birthday but it got longer than I expected and I also got sick. Spoilers for 8x21. Based on my mini-headcanon that whispers to me that Sam being "purified" might mean he won't be fit to be Lucifer's vessel anymore, and that might bleed into other consequences. 
> 
> Lots of angst. Lots of schmoop. 
> 
> Enjoy.

It always happens just like this.

He's dreaming; Sam knows he's dreaming, because the world seems whole but a little fuzzy at the edges, and the aches and pains of his body are somehow irrelevant. He's in his room, staring out a window that he knows doesn't exist when he's awake, and he feels arms wrap around his waist.

He doesn't fight, even though he knows he should. He's so tired that even if he _didn't_ know exactly how this goes, he probably still wouldn't fight anyway. He was safe here. He was _loved_ here. And Sam would be a liar if he said this wasn't actually the best part of his birthday and always had been. It was a good thing that no one ever asked.

“Hello, Sam,” Lucifer murmurs into his neck. His arms tremble minutely where they're looped around Sam's waist. His fingers are insatiable, thumbs stroking circles into Sam's tender sides. His lips press a fleeting series of kisses up the side of his throat. Lucifer is cold, but he feels like Heaven to Sam's fevered skin.

“Hi,” Sam whispers back, allowing his arm to reach back and twine his fingers in Lucifer's hair; soft, like always. He melts back into the archangel's embrace.

“I've missed you,” Lucifer says fervently, his arms tightening around Sam. “So much.”

“I know,” Sam replies. His eyes flutter closed and he enjoys the moment before softly admitting, “Me too.”

With his eyes closed, he barely notices the fact that Lucifer has spun him around; doesn't notice much of anything until he realizes that Lucifer has scooped him up into his arms like he weighs nothing. Sam cracks open his eyes just enough to see that Lucifer is carrying him to his bed, and he closes them again to prevent motion sickness as the archangel sets him down gently. In barely a moment, Lucifer is sitting next to him, his hands petting through Sam's hair. Sam ignores his headache and vertigo in favor of moving his head into Lucifer's lap. His arms sling around Lucifer's waist, and he knows the throbbing at his temple is worth the comfort he's feeling now.

“You're changing,” Lucifer says. He corrects himself. “They're changing you.”

“They're purifying me,” Sam agrees. He clings to Lucifer against all his best judgements because part of him knows this is the last time.

“They're taking you away,” the archangel says, and if he didn't sound like his nonexistent heart was breaking, Sam might have said he sounded petulant. Lucifer's fingers wander to trace around Sam's cheekbones. “After everything, they're taking you, too.”

Sam doesn't know what to say to that. His fingers find a gap between Lucifer's shirt and waistband, and he lightly skims his fingernail over it. Lucifer shudders.

“I love you,” Lucifer says, and Sam freezes. The archangel lets out a wounded little thing of a sound. “You were supposed to be mine, Sam, always. I've only had a few hours, but that's enough. You have to know that. I would change everything if I could, but those few hours were as close to perfect as I've ever felt.”

Sam processes what he's heard. Thinks about it. “I'm not sorry I fought you,” he starts slowly. “But I wish it could've been different.”

“If I'd known, I would have done it _all_ differently, Sam,” Lucifer tells him quietly. His hands move to rub as far as he can reach across Sam's back. “And it still doesn't seem fair. It _isn't_ fair. But we have so little time that it seems stupid for me to cling to my pride, at this point.”

They lapse into silence and Sam enjoys the feeling of being loved. He considers it carefully, savors it, enjoys this moment because it won't ever come again.

“Do you remember my eighteenth birthday?” Sam asks.

“Of course,” Lucifer answers. He rubs Sam's shoulders. “It was the first birthday you spent without Dean. You were lonely. And you were angry.”

“And we fucked.”

“We had sex,” Lucifer corrects him, and he traces the curve of Sam's lower lip with his finger. “You had no idea what you were doing. You were eager and particularly awkward. You were so beautiful.”

Sam flushes, his fevered face boiling with blood. “I was so young.”

“You're still young.” The archangel slides his hands under Sam's arms, holds him steady as he slides down, more propped-up than sitting. When he lowers Sam back down, Sam's head is pillowed on his belly. His hands continue their mapping of Sam's shoulders.

Sam smiles a little. He idly noses at the softness of Lucifer's stomach, trying to get comfortable. “I used to get so impatient before my birthdays. It's weird, isn't it? That I would look forward to seeing some dude that I only dreamed about once a year and had never met. I should have been more suspicious.”

“It's not weird,” Lucifer says. “The day of your birth was the day our connection was strongest. I'm sure that a part of you knew.”

“It's still weird.” Sam slides his hands just under Lucifer's shirt and splays his fingers over Lucifer's skin. He breathes in the archangel's scent; his eyelids flutter, exhausted and content. When he looks up, Lucifer is staring at him. “What?”

Lucifer tilts his head slightly, his expression sad and fond. “I'm never going to see you again,” he says. “After you're made pure. You won't be mine anymore; I won't be yours.”

Sam swallows, winces a little at the pain of it. He looks up at Lucifer as his hands slide further up to settle on Lucifer's chest, arms almost fully underneath his shirt. “You'll still be mine,” Sam says. “And I'll still be yours.”

Lucifer contemplates him, but there's a light in his eyes that wasn't there before. It's a light Sam hasn't seem for a long time—since before he rejoined Dean on the road. Sam barely has time to identify it before Lucifer has gently rolled them over, Sam sprawled liquid-languid underneath him. He's careful to keep most of his weight off of Sam, mindful of Sam's tender ribs and sore muscles.

Lucifer kisses Sam with single-minded reverence and love; Sam feels like something holy and adored—and despite the thundering of his straining heart, he feels peace. Lucifer's hands anchor on either side of Sam's head as he laps at the seam of Sam's mouth. Sam opens to him willingly and eagerly, curling his fingers around Lucifer's wrists. It's heat and coldness and everything Sam has missed in the back of his mind about them being together. He tries to convey with each kiss an apology—because hindsight is 20/20, and looking back he thinks that maybe he shouldn't have spent his time ignoring and screaming at Lucifer for the last two birthdays. Sam knows now that it wasn't Lucifer's fault; what happened in the Cage was Sam's own mind, but Lucifer never would have said differently. It seems like such a waste. They could have been doing this all along.

Sam moans into Lucifer's mouth and instinctively bucks his hips in a blind search for friction. Lucifer both concedes and makes a point by pinning Sam's hips to the bed with his own, making an offering of the slow grind that is both punishment and reward. Sam whines; he's barely able to fight his weak muscles enough to make a better opening between his legs, but he succeeds. Lucifer slips into that gap between his thighs like it was made just for him (and maybe it is).

“One more time,” Sam pants. Lucifer hovers over him and stares. “One last time. No games. No secrets. Just us.”

Lucifer blinks slowly; tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

Sam reaches up to touch Lucifer's cold cheek. “You said that you loved me.”

Lucifer looks more puzzled. “I do,” he agrees.

Sam shivers a little. He offers a tiny smile as his fingers wander, rubbing over Lucifer's flushed mouth. “Show me?”

The moment that Lucifer understands is the moment that Sam sees lust flash across the devil's face and feels hands undoing the buttons of his shirt. He moans his appreciation as he pushes the first layer back from Lucifer's shoulders. By the time Sam's bare, his chest is heaving for breath and he's clawing at Lucifer's back, grinding up against Lucifer's cock as the devil sucks a dark, claiming mark into Sam's throat. He bites down hard for good measure, leaving a perfect impression of teeth, and Sam keens.

Sam's hips hurt—he's lost weight in recent weeks and his pelvis is prevalent through his skin. The grinding is painful, but it's too good to stop. When he lets out a soft, pained gasp, Lucifer stops.

“What is it?” Lucifer asks, alert and concerned.

“It's nothing,” Sam breathes, reaching to take hold of Lucifer's hips and move him _himself_ if he has to.

“Sam, stop,” Lucifer says, and Sam does. He swallows, taking the moment to relax his muscles; he's been so tense that he didn't even notice, but now Lucifer does. “I'm hurting you.”

“No,” Sam replies hurriedly, reaching up to run his hands through the archangel's hair and trying not to grimace at the soreness of his arms. “It's not you.”

“I'm not going to do this if it's going to hurt you,” Lucifer says stubbornly even as he leans into Sam's touch. He rolls to the side, nude and flushed and obviously aroused. Sam sighs and reaches for him, skimming his hand down Lucifer's side and across his thigh. He curls his fingers around Lucifer's cock and rubs his thumb over the slit, inching closer to nose under Lucifer's jaw. The archangel shudders out a sigh, running on instinct as he thrusts into Sam's fist. “Sam.”

Sam nips at his jaw and gives the tender flesh a gentle squeeze. Lucifer doesn't seem to know what to do with his hands beyond reaching for Sam to pull him into a kiss. Sam laps at his mouth as he traces the thick vein on the underside of Lucifer's cock with his thumbnail, unable to stop himself from grinning when he feels Lucifer twitch.

“Tease,” Lucifer hisses, lightly biting down on Sam's lower lip and giving it a short swipe of his tongue.

Sam pulls back, licking the taste of Lucifer from his mouth. “It's going to hurt either way,” he reasons. “That doesn't mean we shouldn't do it. Don't you want to?”

Lucifer frowns and leans his hips more insistently into Sam's grasp. “You know I do,” he says. “But your wellbeing is my first priority.”

Sam scowls at him and releases his grip, giving him a little shove to the shoulder. Lucifer follows the movement down onto his back, and Sam scoots into his side. “I'm not going to be any kind of _well_ if you cockblock me right now,” Sam grumbles, frowning down at the archangel. “Luce, this is our last chance, and I don't want to miss it.” He sighs and seems to deflate, melting until his forehead rests on Lucifer's cheek.

Lucifer pets through his hair, long, careful strokes as he gently works out those few rare tangles. He turns his head until it's his mouth against Sam's forehead, and kisses the wrinkles etched into Sam's skin. “How do you propose we go about this, then?”

Sam considers it and nuzzles against Lucifer in the meantime, strangely affectionate toward this creature that loves him in such excess. It's endearing even while it's terrifying, because the only other person that loves him quite that much has died time and time again for him, and Sam never wanted to be that for _anyone._ He's not _worth_ that. And he's not worth the immense sorrow he can _feel_ radiating from Lucifer's skin in the interim of the reunion of their bodies and the last time they'll ever see each other.

“Sit up,” Sam instructs. “Put some pillows behind you and lean against the headboard.” Lucifer does; Sam crawls into his lap, bare in body and soul as he tucks his face into the curve of Lucifer's neck and slings his arms loosely around his waist. “Like this,” Sam murmurs, grinding down onto Lucifer's cock with a flutter of a moan. “Just like this.”

Lucifer lets his hands rest on Sam's sides, wiggling his fingers and pulling a slightly-hysterical giggle out of Sam. “Cut it out,” Sam says and reinforces the idea with a careful bite to Lucifer's neck. He's smiling, though, and he's sure Lucifer can feel it.

And because this is a dream, things can shift a little without making total sense, as it does when there's the quiet _click_ of a cap and then Lucifer's slick fingers slipping down to nudge at Sam's entrance. Sam hisses eagerly and pushes back against him; whines his approval when he feels Lucifer's fingertip trace his rim, and outright _mewls_ when Lucifer finally pushes it in.

“Yes,” he pants, already desperate for more. “That's it, that's so good.”

“Sam,” Lucifer says almost to himself. His thumb pushes carefully on the stretch of skin behind Sam's balls as he curls his index finger and Sam nearly _dies_ as Lucifer works his prostate. His mouth is stretched wide around the glory of Lucifer's name. Brown locks fall ragged again as Sam resists the urge to toss his head back, instead nuzzling and nipping frantically at the arch of Lucifer's shoulder, reduced to animal instinct in his pleasured haze.

“You always did love this,” Lucifer says heatedly as he manages to slip another finger inside. “Responsive little thing that you are.”

Sam groans something guttural and unintelligible in response. He bares down on Lucifer's fingers and gasps as Lucifer spreads them, clenching around emptiness and nearly sobbing. The stretch of his rim has a bit of a burn to it, but Sam loves the feeling (if only because it's Lucifer's doing). “Please,” he begs breathlessly.

Lucifer laughs a little under his breath and pushes his fingers in to the base. “Yeah?”

“You know who I'll swear to if you don't put your cock in me right now,” Sam pants. He leaves another bite mark on Lucifer's shoulder, then nibbles up Lucifer's throat until he's sucking Lucifer's tongue into his mouth nice and slow. “Want you, Lucifer.”

Going by the haste with which Lucifer removes his fingers, Sam would say he has him convinced.

Sam's back aches from his aggressive encouragement and his head is heavy when it drops back to Lucifer's shoulder. He's so tired and he hurts so _much_ , but that's never stopped him before when he wanted something badly enough. Maybe things would be different if it was just a fuck, but it's not—it's so much more than that and he _craves_ it.

Lucifer doesn't bother hesitating. Not anymore. One hand is tight around Sam's waist, supporting his weight; the other guides the flushed head of his dick to Sam's rim. Slowly, so slowly, Lucifer loosens his arm around Sam, and the two keen in tandem as Sam is lowered onto Lucifer's cock.

Lucifer's head falls back of its own accord as he's rendered breathless by the fever-heat of Sam's body. Sam wriggles restlessly as he's fucked full, clenching down around the base of Lucifer's dick and swiveling a tight circle with his hips.

“Fuck, Luce,” Sam whines. “ _Fuck.”_

“Sam,” Lucifer says, and that's all he says as he attempts to breathe around his clenched teeth. He breathes. “Promise me something,” he grits out.

“Anything,” Sam moans. “Please, Luce. C'mon.”

“Promise me,” Lucifer replies. “That you'll _never_ tell me you love me.” Sam circles his hips; turns his head to look up at Lucifer and doesn't say anything. Lucifer looks back at him and strokes his clean hand through Sam's hair. “If I ever hear you say it, I'll break Heaven and Earth to get back to you, and I can't do that to you—not after everything. It's better this way. Promise me.”

Something in Sam's heart squeezes tight; he doesn't know what and he doesn't want to know. “I promise,” Sam says softly.

“Good,” Lucifer answers. He cranes his head down to give Sam a kiss and grinds up in earnest. The motion forces a gasp out of Sam and Lucifer smirks, quickly readjusting to dig his heels into the bed so he has better leverage. His hands curl around Sam's hips, relying almost entirely on his inhuman strength to bear Sam's weight. When Sam is finally making his protests at being lifted up and being so-nearly-empty, Lucifer drops him back down and takes pleasure from the way Sam keens.

“Yeah, fuck,” Sam encourages weakly, using those moments in between Lucifer outright _manhandling_ him to clench hard around his cock. Sam is too sore, too weak, too overwhelmed to do anything himself, and he's glad Lucifer knows—glad that Lucifer doesn't mind that Sam is dead weight and a puddle of frustrated ecstasy melted over his body.

“How do you want it, Sam?” Lucifer asked, the smallest bit out of breath as he pauses for a second to rub his hands up and down Sam's spine.

“Slower,” Sam says, and rolls his hips while still firmly seated in Lucifer's lap. He lifts his head only to mouth at the archangel's jaw and twine his fingers into blonde hair.

Lucifer pauses, adjusts minutely, and doesn't so much grip Sam's hips as hold him close in entirety. They're pressed together in a tangle of limbs, of fever and ice, rocking more than thrusting. Lucifer is buried so deeply in Sam that Sam swears he can feel Lucifer's cock in his _throat._ They're glued together with the cold sweat of Sam's fever in a mass of writhing limbs; Sam turns to pant into Lucifer's mouth, trading irregular nips and sloppy kisses. Lucifer whispers breathless words of devotion into Sam's cheek, his lips slick and shiny with spit, and he apparently forgets his grasp of the English language as he breathes fractured Enochian.

He forgets that Sam knows exactly what Lucifer is saying when he calls Sam _beloved,_ calls him _fair_ and _feral_ and _mate_ and _mine._

Sam had never even _thought_ about wanting to say _I love you_ to Lucifer until Lucifer had brought it up. Now he wants nothing more—and now he's sworn to silence.

He doesn't want this to end, even though he knows it was over before it started.

Lucifer must know. Lucifer _has_ to know, because he looks at Sam and kisses him hard with his eyes open. He cups Sam's cheek in his palm, the other resting heavily on his lower back, guiding Sam into a roll-and-grind motion that keeps Lucifer seated deep inside. Sam loses track of the time they spend like that, kissing and fucking until even that doesn't seem like the right word. _Fucking_ is too crude; _sex_ is too clinical. This is more than that.

Sam doesn't even want to say what it is. Years of hunting have made him cold, made him close down at any mention of anything soft. This is all kinds of soft and mushy and too-sweet and surreal; it's a good thing that this is a dream.

It's so much more than a dream.

There's light building up inside him, light and energy and chaos and pleasure all about to crest, and he clings to Lucifer like he's afraid to be swept away with the high tide of sensation.

“Please,” Sam whispers, digging his nails into Lucifer's back. His head falls onto to Lucifer's shoulder. “ _Yes. Please._ ”

Lucifer hisses through his teeth and thrusts up hard, fucking Sam nice and deep and slow. His arms wrap around Sam like he has no intention to ever release him, the third trial be damned. “You are worthy of every kindness,” Lucifer says heatedly. “You are worthy of every blessing. You're worthy of every pleasure, Sam, and I want you to have it all. You deserve a good life, a full life.”

Sam's nails dig in deeper to Lucifer's skin. It's getting hard to breathe; it feels like there's a bomb in his chest. “I have a good life,” he says with not a little difficulty. “I ha— _ah—_ have people who love me.”

Lucifer does something—a tight figure-eight motion with his hips that sparks starts behind Sam's eyelids. Sam's mouth falls open with a long string of breathy curses and choked whimpers.

Something about it breaks something inside him.

“No one's ever gonna lo—love me like you do,” Sam pants weakly. “Not anyo—anyone, not ev _er fuck, Lucifer, I can't—”_

Lucifer slips a hand between them to palm at Sam's cock, looking down between their bodies. It's flushed red, dripping precome down the shaft, and Lucifer slicks his fist and starts a languid series of pulls that alternate with his thrusts. Sam _keens._

“Hush, Sam,” Lucifer murmurs, increasing his pace and effectively stopping Sam's train of thought in its tracks. There's a sharp pain—Sam realizes that Lucifer has bitten into his shoulder, just shy of his neck. The feeling of it is jolting and incongruent—and Lucifer thumbs the sensitive ridge under the head of Sam's cock, and Sam is _gone._

The noise he makes is just short of being a scream, but it's close enough. Every muscle in his body is on fire with fever-pain and pleasure. Every muscle tightens. His vision is a mess of color and his ears ring, and he's not sure if it's the tide of blood inside his head or if Lucifer has simply lost control of his True Voice. Sam whines and writes as Lucifer fucks him through it, claws at Lucifer's back until his fingers are red and Sam's body falls lax. Lucifer's hand and stomach is a mess of Sam's come smeared into his skin, and when he cups Sam's face for one more kiss, the picture Sam makes when he pulls away is enough to send him over the edge.

Sam's lashes flutter when he feels Lucifer's cock twitch inside him, makes a short little noise of arousal and content when Lucifer pulls out; Sam can feel Lucifer's come leaking from his hole. A shiver skips up his vertebrae and he presses a soft kiss to Lucifer's throat. The archangel's hands stroke over his back from shoulders to the base of his spine, making circuits over and back again. They mumble unintelligible nonsense to each other, languishing post-sex bliss without a care for the mess they've made. They lay together as long as they can before their sweat and come starts to cool and it all starts to feel gross. Lucifer cleans them up with barely a thought, and it's only when Sam starts to shiver that he pulls back the covers of Sam's dream-bed so they can slip underneath.

Sam settles into the circle of Lucifer's arms, beyond exhausted but loathe to fall asleep. “When I wake up, you won't be there,” he says, and he knows it's true. When he wakes up, it will be for real, and he's not sure if he can handle that.

“It'll be okay, Sam,” Lucifer replies. He kisses the top of Sam's head. “You'll be okay.”

“I don't want to,” Sam protests.

Lucifer sighs. It's clear he knows the feeling. He nudges Sam to turn over and moves in behind him, his chest pressed to Sam's back, and despite his smaller stature, it feels... _good_ , to be able to protect Sam like this. He's affectionate while he can be, and he noses behind Sam's ear, kisses his cheek, laps and lightly sucks on the bite to Sam's shoulder that he made before, darkening it until it's a clear claim. If it were real, it would probably scar.

“Sleep,” Lucifer insists. He hooks an arm over Sam's waist and presses his face into Sam's hair so he can breathe in the scent. “You'll be okay.”

Sam can't really resist at this point, but he's certainly not happy about it. Still, he twines his fingers with Lucifer's where they rest on his stomach and wishes things could have been different.

“I have a good life,” he repeats eventually. “I have people who love me. And I have people that I love.” And maybe that's as close as he'll ever be allowed to say, but he thinks Lucifer understands.

“I love you,” Lucifer reminds him, and doesn't sound bitter about it. Just factual. “And I'll miss you.”

“I'll miss you, too,” Sam says, and closes his eyes. He doesn't remember falling asleep, but he does.

When he wakes up, he is alone. The only things that remain are his memories—and an impossible bite mark bruised into his shoulder.

He keeps it hidden.

Some things just aren't meant to be shared.

 

* * *

 

In the year that follows, he finishes the trials. He tries not to cry when wounds open on his hands and feet and forehead, when he's covered in sores dripping blood and is told it's a _blessing_ to be given the wounds of Christ. And it _is_ a blessing, but it's also a double-edged sword. Because when the trial is done and the demon Abaddon is made pure by his blessing with his own untainted blood and the blood of the new Savior, those wounds heal. The only sign they've ever been is the strange almost-empty sensation in his chest that probably comes from not feeling so _heavy_ all the time.

By the time his birthday rolls back around, he's almost waiting for a miracle. But it comes and goes and Sam doesn't dream.

So he tells Dean he needs a few hours to think, leaves his brother in the bunker with Cas, and takes the Impala. He drives all the way out to Stull Cemetery, which isn't even close to the longest drive he's ever made. It's barely two or three hours; a cakewalk. He kneels in the middle of that clearing and lays the remaining rings of the Horsemen on the ground like a sacrifice, folds his hands, and he prays.

He breaks his promise when he thinks: _Dear Lucifer, it's over. The gates are closed. I'm so sorry. If you can hear me anymore, you should know that I love you. I figure there's nothing either of us can do about it now._

He waits like something might happen and tells himself he's not disappointed when nothing does. He'll forever deny that he pulled the Impala over on the drive back so he could dry his eyes and tell himself that he should know better.

Life goes on like that.

He still aches, still feels strange and maybe empty, still misses Lucifer against his better judgement. But the demons are locked away and Sam is pure. He thinks maybe the weather is on his side, though, because it always seems to be raining. It's a cold summer, but he barely notices. He stays inside.

Before he knows it, it's November; it's been six months and also thirty-one years, and he stays in his room and blames himself for everything. His door is locked. Dean stopped knocking an hour ago.

Something shifts; he feels someone looking at him and figures it's Cas. Dean probably just wants to make sure that Sam is still breathing, and abusing angel friend-boyfriend-whatever powers are the fastest way to do that.

“Tell Dean I'm fine,” Sam says, not bothering to turn around and face his intruder. The wards block out everything else, anyway. “I'll come down for dinner.”

“This isn't what I meant by a full life,” the voice says.

Sam freezes; his brain can't quite follow through on the idea of turning around yet. “Oh, my God,” Sam whispers.

“Quite the opposite,” Lucifer replies. Sam feels the bed dip beside him and manages to look; Lucifer seems exhausted, frazzled, shoved into Nick's unmarred, _whole_ body somehow. He looks back at Sam. “You made me a promise, you know.”

“Humans lie,” Sam says. It's all he says. He reaches out to touch Lucifer's shoulder, and when he makes contact, his breath hitches.

“Messiah is a good look on you,” Lucifer says and he smirks. “Not sure how my Father will feel about your affair with the devil.”

“Political arrangement,” Sam blurts out, and with wide eyes, he all but throws himself into Lucifer's ready grasp. They kiss. For now, everything else ceases to matter.

“Better late than never,” Lucifer murmurs into Sam's mouth.

Sam agrees more than he can say.

 

 

 

 


End file.
